


Bloody Hell

by Marvlotte



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Deborah Ann Woll - Freeform, Elden Henson - Freeform, F/M, Gore, Man Without Fear, Rosario Dawson - Freeform, Suspense, Thriller, charlie cox - Freeform, devil of hell's kitchen, villain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvlotte/pseuds/Marvlotte
Summary: One evening, an intruder barges into Nelson and Murdock's office with the intention of exposing Matt's true identity; equip with a blade, handgun and camera, he hopes to capture Murdock's true self as Daredevil. Of course, nothing goes smoothly. It is found that the spat in the office wasn't just with any man; the true colours of the attacker begin to unfold, revealing a peculiar and gruesome ability that he possesses which poses a great threat to Daredevil and his friends. The ride to justice is bloody and rough.





	1. Headphones and a Blender

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thank you for clicking.  
This fanfiction is based on the Marvel Netflix show 'Daredevil' with Charlie Cox's Daredevil/Matthew 'Matt' Murdock, Deborah Ann Woll's Karen Page, Elden Henson's Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson, and Rosario Dawson's Claire Temple. I DO NOT own these characters, their origins, or concepts. I OWN 'Bloodhaul' so please do not steal him - though you may base your own OC off him. This story will contain bloody violence, injury detail, swearing, hospital scenes, weapons (guns, knives/blades, etc.), and maybe some romantic elements (though I may not include any). I'll be adding to this gradually, chapter by chapter. My writing is descriptive and I do put in 'filler' scenes (they will be amusing/necessary/not a waste of time) - and sometimes flashbacks - to flesh the story out a bit. There will be grammar/spelling/sentence structure mistakes; sometimes I may over complicate sentences too, so something may not make sense. Don't be afraid to point it out to me, and criticism/feedback of all kinds is welcome and appreciated. Enjoy!

Rush hour in the city. Everyone is so loud; each person wants to be louder than the surrounding hustle and bustle in an attempt to be heard. Vehicles bleat at each other as their drivers thump the steering wheel, gesticulating wildly out of their car windows. Some plodded along the pavement, shifting their feet and lolling their heads in a drunken sway; others strode along with great purpose, clutching shiny leather briefcases in their hands. Then there are the lunatics who think it’s hilarious to leap in front of others and screech in their faces, like in a high school.  
“Holy shit!” Karen whined as a passer-by bolted in front of her, raised their hands and shook them, whilst screeching something indecipherable in her face. Swiftly, she grabbed Matt’s forearm before shooting a scowl at the “dickhead!” Matt’s mouth grew into a smirk. He didn’t jump, like Karen did, but did grow tense for a moment, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes in irritation.  
“How did that not get you?” She glanced at Matt who was clearly restraining himself from laughing.  
“It’s happened to me enough times to know when someone’s going to do it. And, plus, he did it to another person further up the street just now”, he said.  
It hadn’t been long since Karen had been properly informed about everything which revolved around her friend. The scene in the office, then in Matt’s apartment, replayed in her mind on fast forward every time she looked at him now. She found it difficult to conceal all her curiosities, and sometimes found Matt perking up as she inhaled to ask a question. As a result of Matt’s abilities, Karen often found herself paying close attention to her own heartbeat, feeling how it pounded nervously around him sometimes, and how her breathing did change when she wanted to say something. It bugged her sometimes, too, that she felt awkward asking him so many questions; Karen was like a young child who’d met a blind person for the very first time: wanting to know everything, understand, and imagine vividly what he felt.  
Karen inhaled – and sure enough, Matt’s head turned slightly towards her – and asked, “does all this ever get too much?” She gestured the air.  
“Occasionally”. Matt said shortly. He wondered whether to add to his answer, then continued; “imagine everywhere you go you have your headphones on, and for the sake of this metaphor, your music is stuck at maximum volume and the same song, one you’re not so fond of, is stuck on repeat. Now, if that wasn’t annoying enough, when you walk through the streets you get a free sample of, well everything; everyone’s deodorant, the washing detergent they’ve used to wash their clothes; you catch the scents of different toothpastes and mouthwashes, mints and chewing gum from people’s breath; and then there are the less pleasing smells like cigarette smoke and car fumes. Not to mention, you can taste these smells in the air too, and most of them are chemical based, so you can guess how they taste. It’s like being the blade in a blender: all the ingredients go in; you start spinning and everything collides and mixes into one big mess. Sometimes, too many ingredients go in and the pressure builds up until the contents leaks out”.  
Karen’s eyes remained averted while he explained, and her fingers fiddled with one another. Once he finished, she pulled her sleeves over her hands and asked, “can’t you take the headphones off? Ever? Or pull the plug on the blender?”  
“Not really, no. I suppose, the headphones are glued to your ears and the blender just never stops”, he said lowly before a loud silence forced itself between them for a brief moment.  
“Sorry”, Matt and Karen mumbled simultaneously.  
“No, don’t worry about it. You have every right to be curious and ask questions, Karen”.  
“If I asked everything, I thought we’d probably be here a while”, she said.  
“Well, better get started then”, he smiled.


	2. The Little Things

Early that morning, Karen and Matt had parted ways: Karen to the Bulletin, and Matt to the offices of Nelson and Murdock. It was evening and the winter air was particularly cold. The offices were chilly, with only a portable heater to relieve Nelson and Murdock from winter’s bitter bite. Of course, Matt felt the cold more than Foggy; he could feel the freshness of the air on his skin, feel it sharply shoot up his nose when he inhaled. It felt like his body was covered in a strong mint paste.  
Foggy scoffed, flapping his arms like a plump hen and allowing them to fall heavily to his side, “for goodness sake!”  
The sound of Foggy’s cursing and wrestling with mugs and containers bled through the sound of the narration, which read through the long article that played in Matt’s ears. Matt’s eyebrows rose in response like two people rising in their seats as a high status person entered the room, and proceeded to roll his eyes. He was totally submersed in the text (even if he was now on his third consecutive day of reading it). Matt was leaned back in his seat, earphones trailing from his ears to his laptop; next to that was a mug: the inside painted with the golden-brown stain of coffee, and with shallow pool of the liquid left at the bottom. One hand of the man rested on the table; his index finger tapping (seemingly) the beat from a song, whilst pointing towards the prominent red glasses: their oval lenses like two angry, or passionate, beacons. The red lenses burned like fire as the light from the bright lamp – which was housed in the main office space between Matt and Foggy’s - reflected off them. The lamp for whatever reason, always buzzed. It would sometimes suddenly change to a higher tone and volume, and occasionally would start clicking like expanding plastic. As annoying as it was to Matt, it did the job whilst they couldn’t pay for lights.  
There was the horribly loud breaking up of thick ceramic, then the dull sound of plastic bouncing a few times on the floor and the sharp ringing of glass shattering; this was all followed by a couple of seconds of silence - where Foggy was inevitably waving his hands about like a cheerleader, then clenching his fists – and finally, as though to finish the act, a harsh: “FOR SHIT SAKE!”  
Matt jumped in his seat, for Foggy had practically bellowed the words and he’d been so engrossed in the article. His heart rate rose as he started up straight in his chair. He slapped the spacebar on his laptop to pause the reader and wandered around his desk to his office door where Foggy had plodded out the kitchen. His anger was clear in how he walked, scuffing his feet irritatingly.  
Foggy stopped just short of the door and peered in. Matt was perfectly framed by the doorframe: he stood there with a mild frown on his face, gesturing confusion with his arms – despite being able to tell what’d happened. Foggy stood there with great heat steaming off him to the surrounding atmosphere. His face was flushed and as he gazed at his friend, he ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair – which had recently been trimmed to what Matt deemed a ‘more suitable’ and ‘more likable’ length.  
“Alright?” Matt’s frown diffused away and he struggled to contain a chuckle that tickled his throat.  
“That coffee jug was shit anyway…”, he replied and turned away with a rigid frame. He sighed and wondered into his own office, shutting the door behind him. Matt shook his head slowly, allowing the chuckle that had been itching to get out, out. He scratched the back of his head and proceeded to seat himself back in his chair.  
The lamp decided it was time for a change. Not only did it get louder, but it also started to click in a very displeasing way. Matt gritted his teeth. To any regular, it was like hearing a power drill from a neighbouring building: merely just another sound. However, Matt felt like the drill was right next to his ear. He put his earphones back in and played the narration, trying to focus on the voice. No good. Matt pressed the spacebar and the narration paused. He scuttled over to his office door and quickly closed it, applying more force to the action than he’d thought and causing the door to slam shut. The sound caused Foggy to jump in his chair.  
Satisfied, Matt sat back down and listened to the voice. The sound of the lamp was indeed quieter, but… That was it. He hit the spacebar hard and tilted his head to one side a little. Foggy was pointlessly rearranging the variety of items on his desk. He centred his head, rubbing his fingers together quickly and biting his lip. That was it. Matt jolted up and strode hastily towards his office door. Murdock pulled open the door in one swift, sharp swing and stalked to the desk. As he grew closer to it, the buzzing of the lamp sounded like a bee was trapped in his skull; the clicking like someone banging his eardrum with a stick. His head jerked a little, then followed the cable to the plug. Matt stooped down and yanked it out. Instantly, the lamp and its song died, but the room went totally dark.  
“Wha-?” Foggy rose from his desk immediately. He almost bumped into his desk, then the doorframe as he strutted out of his office with his hands raised up to his shoulders in confusion. He added in an irritated voice, “Murdock! I was sorting special addition beer tops, damn it!”  
“Sorry man, but we need to get a new lamp. I can’t stand the thing anymore!”  
“Want me to plug it into my room? Some people need light to see”, Foggy gestured his eyes before sighing and placing his hands on his hips.  
“I can still hear it in there”, Matt replied hoarsely.  
There was a moment where no speech penetrated the air, and both were glued to the spot. The city was humming deeply. Occasionally, though, there was a spike in the audio created by Hell’s Kitchen where somebody drunk cackled as greatly as their vocal chords would allow; or more sinisterly, the more severe, hissing screech of the unfortunate. The silence, happily, was sliced by the inhalation of breath by Foggy who probably would have moved if he could see.  
“What’s it like not being able to see whilst in the presence of a blind man who can, in a manner of speaking, see pretty perfectly?” Matt asked, making quotation marks with his fingers at the word ‘see’ despite knowing Foggy could barely see him. He had a beaming smile upon his face and once again there was the tickling feeling of laughter in his throat.  
Foggy shook his head. He attempted to exhale calmly so he didn’t give Matt the idea that he was funny. Inevitably, however, Foggy released a long snort with a pinch of laughter at the end, “Murdock!” he scolded.  
The two shared a moment of laughter until Foggy gave a random thought, “it must suck playing hide and seek with you. I mean, no offense but-”, but was interrupted.  
“You think it sucks for you? If I’m the seeker then the game’s finished before it’s even begun”, Matt commented. “You know, we used to it church sometimes. Wasn’t many places to hide but if you were clever there were some good spots, but generally everyone hid in the same selection of hiding places. Once, I was the seeker. Instead of going to find them, I stood there and listened, focussed really hard to try and find where everyone was. And I did. Just to show off, I then shouted everyone’s names and where they were hiding”, he chuckled.  
Foggy’s exhaled sharply through his nose in amusement but said nothing. Then, “Lights!” he commented boldly after a few seconds, sticking his finger into the air as though it was a grand new idea.  
“Oh, right yeah”. Matt shuffled about on the spot for a moment. Main lights? Lam- don’t even think about turning THAT thing back on. New bulb? “When was this bulb-”  
Foggy frowned, “Pretty sure it’s the same bulb as when we bought the place. And I’m pretty sure all we need is a big juicy pay cheque, then the lights can be on for ever!”.  
“Fog”, Matt said in an annoying tone, raising his eyebrows. Matt didn’t have to say it, he only had to use that tone of voice, Foggy knew what he meant.  
“I know, I know it’s not about the big money”, he rolled his eyes. “But a little juicy cheque wouldn’t hurt”, he added, shrugging.  
A streetlight outside flickered on. Its light was more of a sickly yellow colour than their lamp. The light bled through the blinds and created long stripes across the office and allowed the items on Karen’s desk to cast great monstrous shadows, elongated, fatter and bound together.  
Matt jerked his head very slightly and his absent eyes swivelled about in their sockets. “Think I’ve found the bulbs”, he said. He wandered off to a cupboard in the kitchen. There was a lot of hissing and clonking sounds as things were being moved, until he returned with a bulb in his hand. Foggy’s face was twisted, his features tainted with confusion, but fascination too – even now he found it crazy that his friend could find things without seeing or know their location. Murdock screwed the new bulb in place, then stooped down and plugged the lamp back in. Light filled the room. Foggy’s retinas ached horribly and he rubbed his eyes, for the lamp had come back to life much brighter than before.  
“Where the hell did you find that?” Foggy squirmed, rubbing his eyes and opening them to tiny slits.  
“Back of the mug cupboard in a box”.  
“Right”, Foggy didn’t feel it was worth commenting on. It was true, he’d decided Matt’s world was something he’d never fully get to grips with, unless he was him.


	3. Blind Card

Foggy and Matt sat in their offices, both thinking on the conversation they’d had prior. After the incident of the lamp, they’d expressed concern over the lights. On or off, they didn’t cause any hassle to Matt – unless they buzzed that is – but the point was that they currently didn’t have the money to keep the lights. That hadn’t been a problem during summer as it didn’t darken until late, but now during the winter, one lamp wasn’t practical. Foggy had suggested that they needed to ‘take a case and get a juicy cheque!’ Obviously, Matt had given his ‘it’s-not-about-the-money-Foggy’ speech as usual.  
Matt tore out an earphone and he tilted his head, freezing. A series of knocks had sounded followed by Foggy’s voice letting him know he’d answer it. Matt brushed his finger over his watch: 11:38pm. Who’d be calling at this time? Not expecting anyone… He was about to start up and tell Foggy not to answer, but as Foggy’s hand gripped the doorknob, it was suddenly flung open. With such force it was flung, it rebounded off the wall leaving a small dent; but before it could slam shut again, a massive steel toe capped boot acted as a doorstop. Great vibrations rippled through the office and through Matt’s body as the intruder stalked forward. The door was slammed shut behind the intruder. Foggy backed away slowly. There was a menacing grunt, the slam of a boot, a whimper from Foggy; Matt silently hurried towards his office door, which was ajar, giving him some cover.  
“Matthew Murdock” came a particularly guttural voice. Their pace slowed to a stop.  
“What. The. Fu-” choked Foggy, for they’d grabbed Foggy by the throat and pressed him against the wall.  
Matt jolted his head to one side. Male. Desert Eagle 44 Magnum handgun... twenty-centimetre long blade…Matt’s forehead furrowed. Foggy’s head was increasing in temperature.  
“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen”, they said lowly, glaring into Foggy’s eyes as though he was a trophy.  
“What?” Foggy squeaked uncomfortably.  
He repeated his demand again, “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen!”  
“I heard you the first time, man”, Foggy squirmed before adding, “I’m not Daredevil damn it!”  
“I know you’re not. Your partner is”, he replied.  
Matt shifted so he was flat against the wall behind the door. The intruder started to squeeze Foggy’s throat harder in frustration, and a rumbling grunt escaped the man’s throat like a cat. Foggy’s muscles were feeble and his head was horribly flushed, veins popping out in his forehead and neck. Less and less air was being drawn into his friend’s lungs.  
“Who are you?” Matt called from around the corner.  
The man grunted and turned his head sharply in an attempt to find the source of the sound, a nasty frown upon his features, “the man who’s going to prove you’re full of shit!” and he began to squeeze as hard as he could. Foggy could no longer inhale. Matt clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. Finally, he gave in; Foggy’s grip loosened until his hands let go of the attacker’s arms and his flopped down by his side. His lungs were empty, starved; eyes were bulging and pink, but now as he hit the floor with a dull thud, they closed. A grin grew on the man’s bearded face. His head turned towards Matt’s office door.  
“What have you done?” Matt asked frantically, even though he knew exactly what had happened and could hear his friend’s heartbeat.  
“Don’t worry, he’s not dead”.  
Matt’s heart thundered in his chest; he was struggling to keep his breathing under control. Someone had just strangled his best friend; he felt a nasty desire to strangle him to death. Palms swimming in sweat and his pulse drumming rhythmically in his ears, Matt was ready to attack. He moved away from the wall and went for the door handle just as there was a sharp, long metallic hiss. The blade had been drawn, like a cat unsheathing its claws. Matt silenced himself, taking a long breath and loosening his tie from his neck. That’s when he picked up a new buzzing sound. It wasn’t the lamp. It was so soft he almost didn’t notice it. Matt’s head jerked a little as he tuned into the sound; it resonated from a small device which was fastened well onto the man’s bulletproof vest. A camera?  
“Nelson and Murdock”, he said starting to wonder around the room. “Nelson and the Devil”, he added with a short chuckle.  
Matt closed his eyes and exhaled silently. Slowly, he opened the door and revealed himself, wondering into the space before the intruder who, upon seeing Matt, tossed his blade in hand.  
“What do you want? Who are you?” Matt asked.  
“The man that’s gonna prove you’re full of shit, Murdock!” he growled before launching himself at Matt, slamming him into the floor.  
Matt heard the camera focus on his face. It was filming him. The man, solid with muscle and clutching his blade in hand, held Murdock down with ease. He squirmed on the floor under the man’s heavy torso, but his grasp on his arm was too great. The blade was tossed in the air again – making that distinctive sharp slicing sound in the air – before it was caught in the attacker’s hand. He let go of Murdock’s wrist, drew it up beside his face, clenched his fist, then shot it into the side of Matt’s face. There was a snap and a crunching sound as Matt’s glasses snapped and one of the lenses cracked; they fell from his face. The man grinned, throwing another punch, then another, whilst Matt convulsed under his weight.  
He knew what he was after: Daredevil. The camera was waiting for Murdock to become the vigilante that this man thought he was. Another punch, this time to the nose. Blood crept from his nostrils, and his cheek throbbed.  
“Fight! Back!” The attacker demanded with gritted teeth.  
He drew his fist away and applied his blade to Mat’s cheek. Matt could hear the blade grinding against the little beard he had on his cheek; he could smell the breath of the intruder who loomed over him; taste his sweat, and feel the blade breaking through each layer of skin. Blood seeped from the cut that was forming. Matt yelled, kicked and wrestled; he wanted to fight back, he wanted to snatch the knife and force it into the man’s neck. But he couldn’t. If he did, he’d get what he came for: raw footage showing Matt Murdock as The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. So, he pulled the blind card.  
Matt clumsily swiped at the man’s face, trying to push it away. He felt his finger catch the attacker’s eye which snapped shut instantly and began to water. A deep grunt of fury followed, and Matt took the opportunity to roll onto his side, smearing blood onto the floor. He heard the knife swipe through the air. It landed in his shoulder. He inhaled sharply and shrieked. The knife was yanked out. The man stood up, eye streaming, and began to kick Matt who wriggled like an upturned beetle on the floor. Murdock’s had little streams of blood running across his face whilst this shirt began to soak up that that seeped from the deep cut in his shoulder.  
“I know who you really are, Murdock!” The attacker growled, throwing a kick to Murdock’s injured shoulder.  
Matt convulsed on the floor trying to throw random punches – though actually they were targeted perfectly - his jaw clenched so hard that his teeth began to squeak as they grinded together. There was another sharp whistle from the knife as it moved through the air. The knife was slashed back and forth; it was like death by a thousand cuts.  
Murdock felt his foot touch his attacker’s knee as he squirmed on the floor. He took the chance, drawing back his leg and slamming it into the knee of the man. A crunch rattled in Matt’s ears followed by an ape-like shriek and a dull thud as the figure’s body fell to the floor. The knife clattered out of reach, throwing tiny droplets of blood as it bounced and spun through the air until it finally landed.  
Flailing limbs and the pounding of flesh followed, until the draw of a gun sounded. Matt’s eyes widened with horror. How do you keep the blind card on the table when a gun’s involved? Twisting and shoving, bleeding and bruising, Matt felt the cold, hard barrel of the handgun pressed against his head. The trigger clicked, the cylinder spun, and the bullet shot out the barrel with a violent flash and a puff of smoke; at the same time the harsh sound of shattering glass filled the air. Shards sprang from the intruder’s head, bouncing off the wall and flying in every direction.  
A heavy thud vibrated the floor, then a less severe thud, then a clattering as the gun dropped and settled on the floor. Matt lay dazed on the floor, eyeballs rolling pointlessly in their sockets and eyelids fluttering. Foggy, meanwhile, slouched against the wall with a tomato red face.


	4. Not a Junkie

“You hit the guy over the head with a glass jug?” a muffled voice said, high pitched with alarm.  
“What was I supposed to do, poke him in the face and say ‘Please stop slicing my partner’?” another voice replied, shaken and loud.  
The voices kept breaking, stopping and starting in a virtually inaudible mess. Somebody sighed, but it sounded like white noise or someone grating chalk, then they said that “it was a pretty good shot to the back of the head” and that “the guy’s out, stunned, pretty bad concussion, bleeding and bruising. Nothing severe though, unfortunately”.  
“Good. I don’t think I would be able to sleep at night if I’d killed a guy. Then again, nearly didn’t live to tell the tale”, they chuckled uneasily, applying their hand to their neck and rubbing it harshly.  
“Hey, come on, you’re alright”, the other said, removing their hand from their throat.  
“Still feels like his hands are there”.  
“Don’t worry, the feeling will pass, honest. I got hit several times with a baseball bat once and I felt that shit for a couple days after. It goes though. Eventually”.  
It sounded like a woman and a man speaking, but he couldn’t tell. Everything they said was distorted, it was like listening to someone on the phone with poor signal. Another harsh sigh broke through the ringing in his ear, just before one of them asked the other something, but the words escaped and became totally lost. It was followed by very faint, rhythmic thuds. He assumed they were footsteps. They quickly grew quiet, blending together into a mess of mumbling voices and peculiar machine-like sounds. There was a stench, too, that lingered in his nostrils, but now it was wearing thin, very thin. His eyeballs rolled and his head lolled to the side. Everything stopped. He was completely still.  
Foggy and Claire stood at the window to the room Matt lay in. He stood close to the glass, slowly shifting his weight from his left leg to his right and picking at the skin around his thumbnail; Claire stood with her left hand on her hip whilst she chewed on her index fingernail. It had only been around forty minutes or so since the incident occurred, which was noticeable by the berry-red stains on the dressings that covered the various cuts on Matt’s arms and chest. Foggy’s eyes scanned Matt’s body, lingering on the large patch that covered the stab wound on his friend’s shoulder. Matt’s face looked fairly normal for now – the bruises would come in time – except for a nasty cut on his cheek, splitting the skin like a ravine and the stiches like bridges across the fleshy gap; a busted lip; and his nose that had clearly been broken in the fight, but now was swollen.  
The sharp white light of the room revealed dried blood that sat just inside his nostrils, something that Foggy couldn’t help but notice as he wondered in beside Claire. He applied his hand to his neck once again and rubbed the abused areas.  
“I think he’s passed out again”, Claire observed, her hands on her hips.  
“Is he okay though?”  
“Relatively”.  
“Relatively?” Foggy echoed her word, but as he looked about, he realised what she meant.  
Running up from Matt’s forearm was a tube containing a deep red liquid. Foggy followed it up to a bag of blood which hung next to an IV bag – though he was more concerned about the blood bag.  
“Was it the stab wound?”  
“Nope. It’s something else. When we laid him down, he kept moaning about two things: his ear and how drowsy and dizzy he felt. After realising he was actually going into hypovolemic shock, we put him on blood as soon as we could. But we still don’t know why because we stopped the stab wound from bleeding pretty quick and the cuts weren’t so bad”, she explained gesturing at various points on Matt’s body. “And his ear?”  
“His left eardrum is ruptured which wouldn’t be too much of an issue for a regular person, but”, she sighed, “I mean I don’t know that much about his senses, so I have no idea what could be going on. His right one seems alright, not perfect though. It was tough trying to get information out of him, I don’t think he could hear properly, but like I said, I have no idea what could be going on. I’m not even sure if he knows exactly where he is, he’s been in and out since we got him in”, Claire explained.  
“Matt might be stubborn and tough, but I’m pretty sure his senses are as delicate as me”, Foggy commented, starring at his friend who lay with his head lolled awkwardly to on side with the white of his eyes showing through tiny slits.  
“Any idea how close the gun was when it was shot?” Foggy piped up.  
“From looking in his ear, probably just inches away, why?”  
“In collage, some creep jumped up and screamed in his ear. I didn’t know about his abilities then, but I do remember him being pretty off for a few days after that”. Foggy bowed his head slightly and rubbed his forehead, “He’s going to be pissed when he realises where he is. Don’t think he’s stayed in hospital since…”, the details of the accident that caused his blindness shot into his mind and he clenched his jaw.  
“Hey, he’ll be alright. I’ve seen him fight through some pretty rough shit. It’s probably lucky that the woman in the office opposite was there and heard the struggle”, Claire told him.  
No words escaped Foggy’s lips. As they stared, Foggy’s eyebrows sunk and furrowed as a long sigh hissed from his nose.  
“What?”  
“I just”, he turned around so that he wasn’t looking in Matt’s direction then continued, “every time I see him like this I go back to being totally against his whole thing”, he said making a wild gesture in the air. He turned back to face Claire, then glanced at Matt, “I don’t think I can even blame him for thus one either. As far as I know, he hasn’t pissed anyone off, so I have no clue who this guy is”.  
“Well, the NYPD are at the office now. I’m sure they’ll find something. Could just be some junkie”.  
Foggy eyeballed her. “Didn’t look like a junkie, Claire”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I feel like this chapter isn't as good as the other three and doesn't flow as nicely. It was a challenge to write chapter 4 because of all the dialogue, getting Foggy's behaviour right, and just generally writing a hospital scene - despite it being short and not very hospital driven. But hey, here it is and I hope it's okay.


	5. Bloody Map

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite proud of this chapter. I got really into it and it's taken a fair while to put together nicely. Good old flashback! Feel free to leave comments :)

Foggy watched as the chunks of glass flew about. They twinkled as they spun through the air and caught the lamp light, until they finally rested on the floor. As the attacker swayed, the scent of gun smoke slithered up Foggy’s nostrils along with a face twisting mix of sweat and the acrid, sour sting of spent gunpowder. Eyes glaring and hands on his head, he played the scene in his head as the large man fell forward onto Matt’s body. He gripped his hair between his fingers, a hot lump forming in his throat. Quickly, he backed away until he found the wall. Removing his hands from his head, he applied one to his neck and the other flat against the wall as he slid down it and sat down after realising how lightheaded he felt.  
The ordeal – of being nearly choked to death, then coming round only to wield a glass jug and smash it into the back of someone’s head – kept spinning around Foggy’s head even when Matt stirred on the floor; he squirmed under the weight of the man, eventually rolling him off so he lay beside him.  
Small patches of blood spread through the polyester shirt Matt wore - it now looking like a map of sorts: each patch like an island in a sea of white – and it clung to the stab wound in his shoulder which bled furiously. It had sent dull aches through his entire arm and torso at first, but now it felt like a cleaver was continually slicing into the wound.  
He winced, clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth squeaked together; his left hand was open and shaking, whilst in his right hand he clutched something with the little grip he had. Foggy turned his head slowly to look at his friend, who rose his right arm and tossed the object into Foggy’s office.  
“What was that?” Foggy croaked.  
Matt could only just decipher the question asked, for the ringing in his ear was so great and his friend’s voice sounded like he was breathing heavily into a phone. “…Camera…” he replied, the word only just slipping from his lips. His eyes closed and he passed out.  
Some minutes later, after starring endlessly at the glass on the floor, Foggy was startled by the many footsteps that came through the hallway and to the office door. Little did he know (whilst starring at the glass) that the women opposite their office had called the NYPD and an ambulance not long into the struggle.  
Claire was the first to file into the office, her eyes instantly widening and darting between Foggy and Matt. Foggy gave her a nod and she practically pounced towards Matt. Others filed into the office: one knelt beside Foggy, one began wondering around the office, and another joined Claire’s side.  
“Shit!” Claire exclaimed after she’d cut open Matt’s shirt. “Matt? Matt? Can you hear me?” She asked him, but all he did was moan. Swiftly, she looked over his entire body. The woman who dialled 911 reported a gunshot which was what she was looking for. “No bullet entry or exit holes, no bullet flesh wound”, she reported.  
Foggy’s nostrils flared when he saw the injuries. He dragged his eyes away to look at the nurse who knelt before him.  
“Hey, hey. Look at me”, she said placing her hand on his shoulder. “Can you tell me what happened?”  
Foggy opened his mouth, but only air escaped. He heard Matt groan and saw his legs shuffle about.  
“Look at me”, the nurse repeated softly. “He’ll be alright. The NYPD are on their way. Can you tell me what happened?”  
Foggy cleared his throat and removed his eyes from his partner. “Uh, a guy, that guy”, he gestured the man who was still on the floor next to Matt, “strangled me ‘til I went out. He attacked Matt. I was out for a little, but he’s been punched up and cut pretty bad. The guy drew his gun and shot it just as I smashed a jug over the back of his head”.  
“Okay”, the nurse said checking his blood pressure and heartrate.  
“It was self-defence, I swear!” Foggy said suddenly, his voice a little hoarse.  
“I think it’s pretty damn obvious that it was”, she assured him removing the sphygmomanometer from his upper arm. “You’re alright, just a bit faint I should imagine?”  
Foggy nodded. His eyes kept snapping towards Claire who was dribbling disinfectant into all the cuts on Murdock’s body and trying to get his attention whilst the other paramedic attended to the stab wound in his shoulder. Foggy was given the all-clear and the paramedic crossed over to the attacker who remained still beside Matt.  
Matt’s fists clenched tightly. He groaned and flinched as the disinfectant seeped into the cuts, the clear liquid trickling from each one like a flooding river bursting its banks but with red water. Claire quickly applied dressings to the few cuts that were particularly bad, and the other nurse had now covered the stab wound with a large patch.  
“Okay, Matt we’re going to move you now”, Claire said, but Matt simply shifted, wincing and moaning. “Matt?” She said louder, applying her hand to his opposite shoulder and shaking him slightly. “Just a second. Can you try and get his attention, please”, she asked before rising and crossing to Foggy. She was about to ask about the gun shot when one of the paramedics called her back over.  
Matt’s chest started to rise and fall rapidly in short sharp breaths. Claire stood over him and took in the colour of him; his skin was pale and clammy, and it was clear to her that he was dazed and dizzy. She was quick to deduce and exclaimed, “Shit! He’s going into hypovolemic shock. We have to move him now!”  
Immediately, the three paramedics picked him up off the floor, two at head end to support his shoulder and one at the foot end. Blood was smeared on the floorboards and, next to where Matt’s head had laid was a jagged hole in the wooden floor, revealing the concrete underneath. They shuffled towards the door just as the singing of sirens sounded, shortly followed by quick footsteps and men moving down the corridor. One slipped into the office whilst the others helped the paramedics through the office door and down the stairs to the ambulance outside. A couple of cops exited the building with Matt and the three nurses, whilst others remained in the office. Another ambulance had arrived with the NYPD and now the paramedics filed into the office too, quickly homing around the attacker like pigeons to a slice of bread.  
Upon her exit, Claire knelt beside Foggy. “I was going to ask but, yeah. What did you want to tell me?”  
“The gun shot, I’m pretty sure it went off right next to his ear”.  
“Shit”, she said. “That’ll explain why he isn’t responding to anything I say. Okay, I’m going to have to go. He’ll be alright. I’ll see you soon, alright?” And she exited swiftly.  
Foggy rubbed his neck and cleared his throat just as a cop approached him. He offered his hand to Foggy, who took it and pulled him to his feet. “I’m sure there’s a lot on your mind, but could you tell me what happened here, please?”


	6. Skewed Senses

Matt’s eyes fluttered open. He felt numb. Turning his head to the side, he could just about hear the soft dripping of liquid. The sound wasn’t sharp and pure like it should have been, but muffled and deep. The copper rich scent of blood filled his nose, for dried blood still coated the inside of his nostrils. Through the pungent, coin-like scent of blood shot the sour stench of antiseptics which stung the back of his nose like diesel fuel did. There was also a faint spike of sweat, that damp onion-like smell, and a distant wafting of rubber.   
He shifted in the bed and the manmade fabrics rubbed harshly against his skin, so he folded them back, revealing the collection of cuts that were scattered about his chest – some stitched, some dressed, some naked. Matt shifted again, but he couldn’t feel the wounds. They remained numb. Slowly, he began to move his right hand across to his chest in an attempt to locate his inflictions. One. Two. Three, four-  
“Matt?”   
Matt flinched and his features were slapped with surprise. Next to him, slouched in a chair and rubbing his eyes, sat Foggy. He pulled himself up, so he was sitting up straight. “Sorry”, he said after Matt had violently flinched.   
A concentrating frown furrowed Matt’s brow. “Foggy?” He could just about hear him through the ringing in his ear.   
“Yep”.   
A long sigh escaped Matt’s lips and he somewhat relaxed, his hand laying on his chest over a cut with stitches binding it closed. Neither of them said anything. Matt ran his fingers over the cut, then moved his hand to find another. His friend winced and gritted his teeth; of course, he wanted to tell Matt to stop from messing with them, but he also knew that Matt liked to map out his wounds. After all, he couldn’t see them exactly like Foggy and the nurses could. He’d found five different ones, he thought. Staring up at the ceiling, he moved to feel his left arm. But as he stretched over, his right arm came to a halt. It wouldn’t move. He tugged it a little harder and the distant sound of straining metal.   
“I wouldn’t do that”, Foggy said raising his hand to grasp Matt’s right wrist and guide it back to his chest, but Matt did it himself.   
“What?” He said lowly – a mixture of confusion and not quite hearing what his friend had said.   
Foggy took his right hand and moved it towards a tube. Matt’s hand clasped itself around it. He could feel something running through.   
“You’re on blood and an IV”, he said sitting back in his chair.   
Matt removed his hand from around the tube and placed it by his side as Foggy continued.   
“You’ve got eleven cuts, three on your left arm, one on your cheek and seven on your chest. You had a broken nose but that was an easy fix. You’ve been stabbed in your left shoulder, and your left eardrum is ruptured. But the weird part is, you went into hypovolemic shock, hence the blood bag”, Foggy explained. He tried to speak slowly and as clearly as possible.   
Matt took a moment to process Foggy’s words. It was difficult to hear over the severe ringing in his left ear. In response, he said nothing, but his features morphed as confusion bled into his face.   
“Are you okay?” He finally said, trying to distract himself from his ear’s singing.  
“Kinda”, Foggy breathed. “Still feels like the guy’s hands are wrapped around my throat”.   
Matt couldn’t ignore it. His face scrunched up and he groaned, jerking his head in an effort to find a sound to focus on to cancel out the ringing.   
“What’s wrong?” Foggy piped up, siting forward in his chair.   
Matt lifted his hand and tried to cross it over to his left ear, but the IV cord and the blood bag tube wouldn’t let him. He wanted to put his finger in his ear and twiddle it about. “My ear”, he moaned jerking his head again.   
“Does it hurt?”   
“No. It’s, it’s ringing… it’s so loud”.   
Foggy wasn’t sure what to do, so say; even now he didn’t really know that much about Matt’s senses. Right now, though, he really wished he did, for Matt started to grow particularly restless. He began to shift more in the bed, awkwardly pushing the blanket with his leg until it fell off the bed and onto the floor. Sounds that he hadn’t noticed before started to bleed through - the sound of the heart rate monitor that stood to his right in particular; it’s beeping quickening as Matt started to panic a little. Another moan rumbled in Matt’s throat and he started up, applying his right hand to his face as though to face palm.   
Foggy had stood up and looked over his friend with panicked features and, Matt had realised, had left the room and promptly retuned with someone by his side. Quickly, they came to Matt’s side. They smelt sharp, like chemicals; warm and thick, like rubber; fresh, zesty, almost minty, like lavender. They stood next to his bed, leaning down a little so that their hair touched his elbow.   
“Matt”, the voice broke through the ringing. “Matt”, they repeated. “You okay?”  
He was sure it was Claire. “I can’t”, he breathed. “I can’t stand that”, he said. “Turn it off”.   
Claire stood up straight and looked at the pulse oximeter on his finger. Hesitation quickly left her, and she removed it from his finger and switched off the monitor. Instant relief.   
“Thank you”.   
Claire adjusted his bed so that he could sit up in it, and then began tinkering with the IV and the blood bag. She took a clipboard from the end of his bed and started to write on it, glancing up at Matt every so often. Afterward, she seemed satisfied with Matt’s state, so began the process of removing the IV and blood.   
“Well”, she began as she applied some pressure to the small hole the IV tube had made in his skin. “The blood’s done the job, the colour has returned to your skin and you definitely seem more like you”, she observed whilst now applying gauze and tape over the IV hole. Next she moved onto removing the rube which had fed the blood into his system, echoing her previous process.   
“So, how do you feel?”  
Matt jerked his head slightly, trying to find the best position that allowed the words in best. Instead of answering, he stretched his hand across to his left ear, stuck his finger inside and wiggled it around. Just as he suspected. As he moved his finger about inside, the sound was thick, crackly and dull. A long sigh came from his mouth and he removed his finger, placing his hand in his lap with the other one. Still, he said nothing.   
At the end of the bed stood Foggy. He’d been pacing about whilst Claire attended to Matt, but now stood watching Matt fiddle with his ear.   
“Can I look inside?” Claire asked.   
Matt nodded faintly and Claire collected an instrument which she then inserted into Matt’s ear. She gritted her teeth and drew air in, making a sharp hissing sound. This whole ordeal meant Matt had lost his grip on his senses, especially his hearing; Claire’s harsh intake of breath sounded like hundreds of beads cascading down a wooden tube. His muscles clenched and he quickly turned his head from her.  
“Shit, sorry”, she said pulling away.   
“It’s okay”.   
“Its not looking good in there. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what I should do. I mean, looking at it, I don’t think you’re going to lose your hearing in that ear permanently. However, with the condition it’s in, we should probably perform some kind of procedure. But I don’t want to mess around in there because, well, it’s you. I don’t want to screw anything up, because it’s quite clear that your hearing is one of the primary things that allows you to do what you do, function like you do. In a way, it’d probably be best to leave it to heal on its own. Not ideal, but”, she shrugged.   
“There’s more to it than just hearing”, he said.   
At this point, Claire knew more about Matt’s abilities than Foggy did. She began to sterilise the instrument used to look into Matt’s ear but was clearly intrigued by what he had to say next; Foggy, meanwhile, folded his arms and, with a slight frown weighing his eyebrows down, listened intently.   
“It has happened before. Losing or partially losing my hearing in one ear affects my balance, coordination, ability to read people, even walk around. Doesn’t take much to skew my senses”, he admitted. He hated admitting that, but it was a truth about who he was: despite his obscure, yet miracle senses, they were just as delicate as anything else. Matt continued, “if I tried to walk over to the door now, it would require an insane amount of concentration, more than usual, or there’s a chance I wouldn’t even make it”.   
“So, what you’re saying is you’re basically like a regular blind guy, right?” Foggy interrupted.   
“Pretty much, yes”.   
“How long do ruptured eardrums take to heal, Claire?”  
Claire exhaled loudly as she thought. “Obviously, it depends on the amount of damage done. Some heal within weeks; some heal within three months. Looking at yours, I’d say it’ll take at least a couple of months”, she said gritting her teeth and biting her bottom lip.   
Matt closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose in frustration. He didn’t open them again until both Claire and Foggy had left the room – Claire had shrugged, then gestured at the door and exited; Foggy had offered to pick up a coffee for Matt, which he declined, then exited to get himself one.


	7. Fit to Burst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I feel like this chapter isn't as good quality wise, but I'm quite happy with what happens. Hopefully you'll enjoy the gruesomeness.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”   
The voice came from a cop who was kneeling next to him and leaning over his face. He had a thick beard, a ginger one and curly orange hair which poked out from under his hat. The ginger man was a little too close for comfort, so he threw his arms up in the air as though to swat a fly.   
“Ah!” the cop scoffed, jerking out the way with a heavy frown. He then made a gesture to someone who came to his side; they also carried a frown on their face, and seemed to examine the body in front, which frowned back. This cop had a wonky nose and a brown moustache.   
“Get him up”, the wonky nosed cop ordered, and another man (who’s scalp was bare) hurried over and started to yank at his limbs until he was slouched against the wall.   
As he sat there, like a sack of sand propped up against the wall, he could feel something on the back of his head. He frowned and applied his hand to his scalp, feeling the region that had been struck with his fingers. He could feel something soft and fabric-like; he followed it with his fingers. Apparently, it was wrapped all the way round his head and there was a squishy bit where the wounded region was.  
“Sir, you’re going to have to come with us”, the ginger one said, now standing in front with his hands on his hips as though to assert dominance.   
“Zebadiah Jax”, he paused almost for purposeful dramatic effect before continuing, “you’re under arrest for attempted murder and physical assault. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You will be cuffed and escorted to a cop car momentarily”, the moustached man said boldly, whipping out a pair of handcuffs almost with a smirk.   
The ginger man and the bald man knelt either side of Zebadiah and pulled him up. The handcuffs were handed to the ginger man, who promptly tugged his hands behind his back and secured them.   
It was clear to Jax that he’d received some medical attention whilst he was out cold, but as he rose from the floor, he suddenly felt quite faint. His head was heavy and clouded; retinas were aching with the bright light that they’d brought in and stood in the corner of the office; and his legs felt weak. He wanted to touch the back of his head again, but as he tried to move his hands, the ginger man gripped his wrists tighter.   
“Don’t try anything funny, Jax”, he boomed.  
“My head…”, Jax mumbled.   
“You were struck in the head with a glass jug. A dressing has been applied to the wound and you lost some blood during the incident. You will feel dazed and tired for a little while”.  
Awkwardly, Jax, the ginger cop and the wonky nosed cop all marched down the narrow corridor, to and down the stairs. The descent was most frustrating; the ginger man clearly had no spatial awareness, so kept bumping into Jax repeatedly as they travelled. The moustached cop marched by Jax’s right side but was a little too close for comfort. Jax’s right arm tingled, like when you’re sitting in a room by yourself and you feel like you’re being watched.  
The dazed feeling was lifting when he and the irritation crew approached the NYPD car. The strip of lights on the roof were dancing, the red lights spinning like ballet dancers caught in a glass case. The door was opened, a hand was applied to his head and he was shoved inside. Swiftly, the cops clambered inside and started the engine; one of them pressed a button and instantly, the captured ballet dancers started to scream whilst the engine growled.   
Before long, they were darting through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Zebadiah’s head was beginning to ache horribly. He wouldn’t have minded the journey, but the screeching of the sirens and the bickering of the cops were like some disgraceful noise cocktail.   
One of them picked up the radio piece and yanked it towards their mouth. “This is Hale, we’re bringing them in. Six minutes away. Name is Zebadiah Jax, attempted murder and physical assault”. Except, he didn’t finish his sentence. Jax glared through the mesh wire between him and the front of the car and saw the cop grow completely rigid. His hand froze, then began to shake. The radio fell from his grasp. Jax’s eyes switched to the driver who quickly became rigid too; his hands froze, and he became panicked that he couldn’t steer the wheel. Both of them started to quiver violently, moaning and wincing. The eyes of Jax scowled forward through the mesh barrier as the men began twitch and jerk about. The ginger one, Hale, slowly brought his hands to his face to inspect them, and the other rolled up one of his sleeves. Their skin was burning as tiny beads of blood started to force their way through to the surface.  
A sudden ape-like yelp sounded from the driver: the car was rolling freely down a slope. He desperately tried to move the wheel, but it was no use. The car knocked a parked car, then another, before the three of them were jolted forward. They had stopped, colliding with a thick wooden post on a block corner. Clipping the parked cars had proven fortunate to them, slowing them down somewhat, but now the two cops looked at each other. Their faces were dripping with blood and their white shirts were as though they’d been dipped in ruby-red paint. They gritted their teeth and closed their eyes, a blanket of sharp pain covering their entire bodies. Horrible hoarse groans and cries erupted from them until finally, the car went silent.   
Jax leaned forward. He looked left at the driver, who’d fallen forward and now lay awkwardly against the steering wheel, then right at Hale, who had perished with his eyes glaring at his colleague. Jax shuffled a little closer to the door. He turned, grasped the door handle and opened the door, exiting the car. Next, he wandered around to the passenger door, which he also opened. It was impossible to see in the dark, but the car seats were now soaking up the blood of the two men. Jax knelt down and examined the large keychain on the officer’s belt. He’d been in cuffs before, so he knew what to look for. Hastily, he began to tug at the keychain until it became unhooked from its belt.   
It wasn’t long before there was a harsh sound as the collection of keys clattered to the tarmac, then a shorter metallic CHINK as the handcuffs did too. The man’s mouth twisted into a grin for a brief moment, before his features sunk into something more dark and determined.   
Jax turned his back on the car and clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply; the two heads of the officers started to bleed rapidly from everywhere – blood ran from their noses, ran down their necks from their ears, crept from the corners of their eyes and mouth, and forced its way through their skin – until they burst, beautifully decorating the inside of the car.


End file.
